


Alternative Therapy

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Clothed Frottage, Coming In Pants, Explicit Language, Fighting, Fighting Kink, First Time, Kink Meme, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Nick finally snaps and punches David Cameron in the face. It turns into a wrestling contest, of both egos and of fists, where they eventually end up on the floor together. But their bodies seem to think it's an entirely different kind of 'ritual' taking place... and, hey - anything's gotta be better than knocking each other senseless - right?





	Alternative Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2011 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the 'Clameron getting violent with one another in a sexy way' prompt at the uk_lolitics anon kink!meme.

"What was that for?" there was a scream, muffled like a microphone on a windy day, as the man in question cradled his poorly cheek. The shrill sound had swiftly followed that of a 'thwack' - the very noise of tautened knuckles meeting with the side of a flabby, unassuming face. And the last thing David Cameron could have _assumed_ to be the result of their, quite frankly, _boring_ morning meeting, was to be socked in the kisser by Nick Clegg.  
  
There were no words in response. What words could there be to describe two of Britain's most important politicians descending into fisticuffs?  
  
"Wha-- What the _hell,_ Nick?" David said, increasing the volume to that of a level he still felt comfortable with - unwilling to antagonise his injury any further.  
  
"You, my friend, have no idea what I've had to endure from my backbenchers today... Have you even _seen_ the papers? Because if you have, you made a bloody good job of not bringing it up back there," Clegg gestured towards the desk; he didn't have to try very hard to convey his message, for the headline was on an open page. "Miliband is patronising us now by saying that he wants to work _with_ the Liberal Democrats... He’s calling the coalition our ‘tragic mistake’. They're ripping us to _shreds_ out there and you aren't far behind them, David, because you won't _help_ ; you've been treating us like a bunch of lepers ever since Vince had the idiocy to speak out in public like that."  
  
"Hitting me in the face? Is that _really_ the answer? For _God's_ sake, there'll be photographs," came the protest.  
  
"You deserve it; this is all your doing. You're turning me into a laughing stock... Now they can all laugh at _you_ , Cameron. Maybe you should tell the papers that your wife did it? For not washing the dishes properly? You pansy," Nick shook his head and turned to walk away. His anger had a habit of getting the better of him. He'd mostly kept it out of this coalition up until now.  
  
"Very rich coming from a 'kept' man. Exactly how much input did you have in naming your three sons? Or are you just a fan of La Liga, Mr. Gonzalez-Clegg?"  
  
"That's low, Dave. You're lucky you don't get another smack."  
  
"No," the older man replied. "You're lucky that I'm not the fighting kind. Because I could have you out-cold."  
  
There was a snort of derision.  
  
But David soon snapped back. "You're kidding me, right? I work out at the gym. I _run._ I jog nearly _every_ morning. You, on the other hand - you're wasting away to nothing, you don't eat properly and you're practically _three stone_ soaking wet."  
  
"Keep it buttoned, alright!" After several newspaper articles on the subject, jibes toward Nick's increasing fragility were not taken kindly.  
  
"Do you honestly think this is _working,_ Nick? Because I'm not frightened of you."  
  
Unlike his right honourable friend, David didn't often indulge in tantrums. He chose, instead, to toil internally - in order to keep up appearances. It was a long debated argument whether or not it was wise to bottle it all in, and Nick and himself were two sides to a coin which had existed all throughout history; in darkness and light, peace and war.  
  
The student protesters thought violence was key to getting themselves noticed in the recent riot and, some thought that they were right, whilst others thought that they were animals. And then some prefer to take the Gandhi approach to world affairs. If one thing was for sure, the British public didn't want to see another Gordon 'laser-printer-throwing' Brown. Stupidly, Cameron thought _everybody_ shared this view. But he was wrong.  
  
"You’ve underestimated me from the off!" The Liberal flew at his rival like King Kong trying to sweep aside the innocent maiden with his mighty paw. David was knocked clean off his feet. In a cartoon, his crisp, leather shoes would have still been stuck to the floor. But instead, he lied flat on his back; fully intact, though rather dishevelled and now grappling to stand.  
  
"Oh no you don't," Clegg opposed him, and effectively put a stop to Cameron's futile attempts by clambering aboard his chest and pinning him to the ground. "Now you know how I feel," he spat, holding the body firmly between his thighs. "No matter how many times you knock the Lib Dem party down, they always get up... But it's fucking hard sometimes, Dave... It's fucking _hard!_ "  
  
He slapped him across the face. And then he slapped him again for good measure. The older man was bleeding slightly from the corner of his mouth, from a small flap of ripped skin which could have been as much to do with dry lips as anything else. Cameron turned his head away and closed his eyes in disgust. _"Let this be over,"_ he thought.  
  
"I can stand up for _myself,_ you know," Nick growled. "I've just _tried_ to be diplomatic about these things... But there's no pleasing you, or your pathetic party and, now that the media's in on the act, people are protesting outside my door and frightening my friggin' children. You _cunt_. Nicey-nicey, all smiley diplomacy can only go so far, you liberty-taking _cunt_."  
  
The next thing the Prime Minister felt was the choking sensation which came with having his collar pulled and the searing pain of being repeatedly slammed back against a hard surface. David's head must have sounded as solid as the wood - like the bailiff banging on the door, or the foreboding drums of war - as his Deputy strangled him back and forth; pounding, pounding, _pounding_ down until he was almost unconscious - and there was an unmistakable dent in the clear varnish. His scalp was _burning._ As if he didn't have to meticulously comb over that area enough, he was looking to have a Tom and Jerry-sized lump to disguise by the end of the day. A _bald one_ at that.  
  
And though he was surviving... just... the buttons on his shirt had sadly to befall a worse fate. Nick was ripping it; the brute. There wasn't much else to say beyond that. Apart from the fact that his once-friend and colleague was beating him to a bloody pulp; something he truly _never_ expected, no matter _how_ far this coalition was falling the shitter. Actually, this _really_ wasn't on at all. He was _supposed_ to be in charge here. The Cameron empire was crumbling faster than the bones in his joints were almost being broken.  
  
"You'll never know what this is like," the Liberal complained. "You're the Tory and yet _I'm_ the most hated politician since Thatcher... Ah, _fuck,_ David - you don't _fucking_ understand!" He was literally going berserk. There was _no_ arguing with him.  
  
"I don't suppose I ever will... but I want to _help_ you, Nick," he tried to say, as softly as one can whilst having their skull bashed in. Because he _genuinely_ cared. It was difficult to justify that notion when he’d have to lie to the cleaners about why his blood was smeared all over the rug, but somehow he still _did_ and _could_.  
  
They settled into a rhythm. Nick dished it out and David took it. They rocked against one another's bodies both quickly and aggressively and, well, Dave supposed it was acceptable for _certain_ bodily reactions to occur. Especially seeing as, with barely two inches between the heights of the two men, their parts were mathematically destined to be aligned. But it was something he hadn't even _considered_ until he realised, with some embarrassment, that the pair of them had become rock hard during the spectacle.  
  
Were they getting off on the mutual tension here? Or did he perhaps have a hidden fetish for such shameless brutality? Dear _Lord,_ he’d seen websites devoted to this sort of thing.  
  
What was more likely was that - _sometimes -_ in the confines of his own mind and private bedroom - David _may_ have caught himself fantasising about Nick. And Clegg _could_ have - beyond his rage - when outlining new and exciting policies, just _maybe_ fantasised about the innovative ways he would make Cameron _accept_ them. And undoubtedly, they _had_ \- unbeknownst to anybody else, including their wives - fantasised at length of an encounter as _close..._ as personally _intimate_ as this. Just probably without the incessant pummeling. Though, then _again_ , the shirt-ripping could _stay_.  
  
When the recurring motion of their fighting so subtly began to resemble sex, that marked the end of their resolve. As prominent as the boards beneath, or as harsh as the elbows digging into the soft fleshiness of David's held-down arms, was the ridge of firmness nestled beneath each of their trousers. It took them both a second or so to realise but, when they did, their movements gradually increased with purpose.  
  
Clegg was silent, but had stopped hitting David. They writhed a little into the touch and Nick gasped aloud. He tried to disguise it as a huff of anger or annoyance, but there was no denying it to be the kind of noise someone would make when they were turned on. He will have been frustrated, _yes_ \- but more at his own lack of self-control than the actions of the man underneath him, who was gently bucking away.  
  
Similarly, the first moan that Cameron went on to make, which was clearly _not_ one of discomfort but one of pleasure, made him blush at the thought. They were melting into each other now. The hushed expletives came rushing in their droves at the completion of every carnal, thrusting cycle.  
  
Understandably, the younger man wanted to regain his authority over the situation and have it return to what it was. But it was silly to think he ever _could_. As he raised his hand to slap the Prime Minister, the brunette caught it in his left; when Nick tried with the other, David caught it in his right.  
  
With no hands, there was nothing to raise his prostrate frame above Dave now, and he was lying on him in such a manner that his _needed_ his body as a pillow of support. He could feel _everything_ that the politician had to offer - and, if one thing was obvious, it was that he _wanted_ him - immensely - and wasn't merely appeasing him. The Tory was panting erratically and his complexion was of perfect crimson to offset his lime green tie, unknotted and askew.  
  
Gripping his two hands tightly above, he pitifully appealed, "Please Nick... Let's do this; it'll be good for our relationship." It wasn't the most intelligent _reason_ to carry on - after all, it surely wouldn't have been _good_ for his and Sam's relationship. And, given her fiery continental temperament, been even worse for Nick and Miriam's. However, he had, as _always_ , an intelligent _reasoning_ for carrying on: "When you're angry... I don't get angry like you, so _no_ \-- I _don't_ really understand. I admit it. But when you are angry and you _need_ to take it out on me; you feel the need to show me the zeal that made you Lib Dem leader to begin with? I'd rather have you take it out on me through your _prick_. And so would you, judging by the size of it."  
  
Clegg screwed up his eyes. He appeared as if he wanted to cry, or laugh this off as a bad joke.  
  
"Come on," Cameron soothed.  
  
When the Democrat eventually opened his eyes, his counterpart was appealing for a kiss. He had managed, in the shortest space of time, to slip his hand around the back of Nick's head and pull him forward slightly, but the final part of the connection could not be made without input from his good self.  
  
He blinked. David was gawping up at him in earnest, mouth agape. Nick took a moment to mull this over but, by the end of it, none of it made any more sense. His emotions were everything at once, overloading his senses and rendering it impossible to think; all he had to go on were his _rawest_ instincts - what he'd lived, what he'd learned, and what little his brain could recollect at this time. People coming out of comas, regardless of their time in sleep, would always be able to recall _something_ about the world they knew.  
  
And so he gathered himself. They were all sprawled about one another in twisted, tender shapes and their poor damned hearts must have been racing fifty to the dozen. If that didn't deem them as lovers, he didn't know what did. Lovers kissed, didn't they? So that seemed normal - as _normal_ as this could ever get.  
  
Driving his tongue wildly into the Tory's mouth, Clegg didn't bother to ask for permission first; if his opening gambit was to physically attack the man, then he wouldn't lower himself (or better himself, given your point of view) to softening up now. But Cameron wouldn't have _wanted_ him to if it had meant stopping; nasty Nick was better than no Nick. And if he took that tongue out of him now - something he'd waited so long to feel - then he feared he might wither and die without it. Also, more _realistically_ , the Liberal would probably start smacking him about again. And he didn't want that either.  
  
They came, quickly and, indeed, in quick succession of each other - into their underwear. Or at least David _thought_ Nicholas had. He was liable himself to stay hard for a fair few seconds afterwards, so the sensation of still grinding away into a wet mound came as no surprise. But he worried he'd been so horny that he'd produced said _half gallon_ of ejaculate by himself, and what he thought he felt as Clegg's come dampening the front of his trousers, was actually his own seeping through to both. He wished he hadn't appeared so _desperate_.  
  
However, when Nick's weary head slumped onto David's shoulder with a sigh, he realised that his almighty cry was almost definitely the call of climax. The stickiness remaining in his boxers, especially now knowing that half of it was Nick's, was arousing enough to tease him into another round.  
  
He knew it wasn't the ideal scenario - them sullying their suits so thoroughly as this, on the floor of his Deputy's office - but if a single thing about this situation had changed, and they'd have paused to take off clothes, they might've mustered enough of an excuse to end it. And then Clegg would have struck him no doubt _again_ \- this time for being a pervert.  
  
Breathing into his partner's hair, he inhaled everything that was _Nick_ \- from the supermarket own-brand shampoo he had been using since before he became leader and, even though he could now afford better, never felt the need to change it - to the cologne his wife bought him, which he didn't want to think about because their wives were a discussion for another day. Even through a split lip and a black eye, he could see the Lib Dem was special. Even through the emotional association to such vicious wounds, he could still forgive him.

"I don't think it's my fault. I have my part to play, I know, but this coalition was a joint decision - and you knew that when you took it on; you knew it was a battle and not a... scrap. But I'll still apologise if that's what you _want_ ," Cameron whispered, calm on the crest of his post-orgasmic chill.  
  
Clegg said nothing. His mind was ablaze with words, but he chose not to disclose them: "Not your _fault_ , David? Not your _fault?_ The coalition may _not_ have been your fault, but it's _your_ fault that you had to be Prime Minister and make me Deputy, in a world where we could be free from media scrutiny were we practically _anybody_ else; it's _your_ fault that you married your wife when you know she can't give you what you want, and I can; it's _your_ fault that you make me love you on a daily basis when I shouldn't - and I should _hate_ everything about you instead of falling over myself to please."

The Conservative kissed Nick's forehead. Clegg had spoken not one sentence since they began, sparing the odd four-letter word or so - mostly starting with 'f' and ending with 'k'. He'd actually been unsettlingly quiet. But then, as if he'd rightly predicted his concerns, the Liberal propped himself onto his haunches and quietly spoke his thoughts aloud.  
  
"Er, how often can we do this, David?" he asked, urgently, and with just the tiniest hint of nervousness to his voice, which wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone not looking for it. _Typical Nick;_ always about the when and how often, and never about the why and how.  
  
"Do I want to do this again? Why, _yes_ I do... without all of the histrionics, of course. _Can_ we do this again? I... I don't see any reason why we can’t consider it as an option, Nick, but we do need to set down some ground rules," now it was David's turn to be the epitome of himself - talking strictly in regulations and schedules. "We can't be risking it around Whitehall all the time - there will be occasions where we lose ourselves in the less private rooms with CCTV... and we can't be ruining a different suit for every day of the month."  
  
Nick had frantically nodded, having enjoyed the act so much that he'd agree to _anything_ Dave was willing to propose. It also kept his anger at bay and, bizarrely, there were less obvious implications for the media to pick up on when they shagging one another ragged, rather than fighting one another ragged. Cameron had _told_ him that with one more blow to his face, it was _game over._  
  
But what Clegg hadn't expected: one of those ground rules was that David would always insist that the deed took place in an actual bed - and confined to designated time-slots, like a _real_ anger management session. And despite considering this an unusual twist to the clause, he thought, placing his wedding ring on the bedside table for the third night in a fortnight - he couldn't complain. Because when he was in those arms, he literally _forgot_ what anger was.

He could live with this. There were _many_ men in this world seeing therapists behind their wives' backs.


End file.
